n wheels in his bedat five in the afternoon.Bones and flutes resound in his earsat five in the afternoon.Now the bull was bellowing through his foreheadat five in the afternoon.The room was iridescent with agonyat five in the afternoon.In the distance the gangrene now comesat five in the afternoon.Horn of the lily through green groinsat five in the afternoon.The wounds were burning like sunsat five in the afternoon,and the crowd was breaking the windowsat five in the afternoon.At five in the afternoon.Ah, that fatal five in the afternoon!It was five by all the clocks!It was five in the shade of the afternoon! 2. The Spilled Blood I will not see it! Tell the moon to come for I do not want to see the bloodof Ignacio on the sand.I will not see it! The moon wide open.Horse of still clouds,and the grey bull ring of dreamswith willows in the barreras.I will not see it! Let my memory kindle!Warm the jasminesof such minute whiteness!I will not see it! The cow of the ancient worldpassed her sad tongueover a snout of bloodspilled on the sand,and the bulls of Guissando,partly death and partly stone,bellowed like two centuriessated with treading the earth.No.I do not want to see it!I will not see it!Ignacio goes up the tierswith all his death on his shoulders.He sought for the dawnbut the dawn was no more.He seeks for his confident profileand the dream bewilders him.He sought for his beautiful bodyand encountered his opened blood.I will not see it!I do not want to hear it spurteach time with less strength:that spurt that illuminatesthe tiers of seats, and spillsover the corduroy and the leatherof a thirsty multitude.Who shouts that I should come near!Do not ask me to see it!His eyes did not closewhen he saw the horns near,but the terrible motherslifted their heads.And across the ranches,an air of secret voices rose,shouting to celestial bulls,herdsmen of pale mist.There was no prince in Sevillewho could compare to him,nor sword like his swordnor he...
